With as much indifference as he could muster, Jason sauntered along the platform, a passenger looking for the car whose number matched that on his ticket. His bag’s wheels hummed soothingly across the smooth concrete.
Unarmed, Jason stood a slim chance against one man with a blade, none against two. His daily workouts had kept him in physical shape and he remembered his military training well. But two professional assassins? It was the stuff of James Bond movies. Unless he had the advantage of surprise.
Surprise.
There was another part of his long-ago, if well-recalled, Delta Force preparation he was calling upon, those situations where trainees were placed in near impossible situations, forced to rely on their wits and whatever was at hand.
Scar Face and Skin Head were closing the gap, their eyes flicking between Jason and the cop. So far, neither man seemed particularly concerned. They came to a halt as Jason reached the officer.
Jason recalled an article he had read about the tube. Luckily for the tranquility of its passengers, cell phones rarely worked in the underground system. Since the bomb attacks, however, this seeming benefit had become a hazard: What happened if there was another emergency? The problem had been solved in January 2009, when TETRA technology had established emergency cellular phone contact between special handheld sets issued to police and others working in the network.
Jason held up a copy of the multicolored diagram of the system. “Excuse me, Officer, but could you tell me how I get to Victoria Station?”
Conditioned to questions from tourists unable to read the simplest of maps, the cop reached for the sheet of paper Jason was proffering with one hand.
Jason instantly snatched the bulky cell phone from the astonished policeman and depressed what he hoped was the Speak button. “Bomb!” he yelled. “Bomb!” He had read that the phones had locator devices but now was not the time to verify reports. “At King’s Cross Station!” he added.
The cop was trying to grab back the gadget as pandemonium broke loose. One woman’s corgi had slipped its leash and was tearing at ankles. Baggage was deserted where it had fallen. People were shoving one another to get to the exit, a tide that swept both Scar Face and Skin Head along with it. Jason broke free of the officer’s grasp and hurled the bulky phone against the nearest wall, where it shattered. There would be no countermanding this report.
Having failed to retrieve his phone, the officer grabbed Jason by the collar. “You’ll be coming with—”
With both hands, Jason swung his roll-aboard, catching the surprised policeman’s knees, which buckled like a felled oak. The instant he let go of Jason to try to prevent a fall, Jason was off, running with dozens of panicked passengers.
The exit was jammed, not only by those trying to get out, but also by uniforms from the adjacent tube stations trying to get in.
Scar Face and Skin Head had disappeared.
28
The morning had seemed the precursor of an enjoyable day for Inspector Dylan Fitzwilliam: Tonight, Shandon, his wife, would return from a five-day visit with the grands in Manchester. No more takeaway dinners, no more shoddy cleaning by the charwoman. A series of snatch-and-grabs in the Petticoat Lane Market that had the print media in an uproar had been solved as of yesterday, the malefactors safely in the nick, and, finally, two days of unseasonable drizzle had lifted, bathing the city in sunlight.
That was this morning.
Now there was the American.
As per the inspector’s standing request, he had been notified of any “unusual” activity in the tube stations and a false bomb threat was, well, unusual. Fomenting a panic like the one that had ensued at King’s Cross, it had been mere luck no one had been trampled to death if the security tapes sent over by the British Transport Police were to be believed. As it was, there were enough complaints of cuts and bruises and at least one possible broken arm.
Someone who thought a prank like this was funny was seriously sick. Next time someone might get killed. Or, worse, a real bomb threat might be viewed as crying wolf one too many times. The bloody Yank would have to be apprehended before one of his “jokes” caused serious harm. No doubt he was, in fact, an American according to the officer whose radio he had used.
Fitzwilliam felt the beginning of a headache. Scowling, he reached for his empty pipe and sucked on the stem. The damn health Nazis had forbidden a man smoking in his own office. By the time he took the creaky, 1960s vintage lift down to the Leper Colony, the name the employees had given the outdoor smoking area, and he enjoyed a half bowl of tobacco as much as standing around outside would allow, he would have wasted half an hour. Nothing to do but smoke and make idle conversation with chaps he barely knew. That and look at the building itself. From any angle, it suggested a ship’s bow. Fittingly enough, since the structure had originally been intended to house part of the Admiralty. Instead, it had become home to the boffins at MI5 before being turned over as a hand-me-down to the Metropolitan Police.
The American.
Hold on a bit! The Yank had been in a rail station, right? A rail station would suggest he was on his way somewhere other than the inspector’s bailiwick, spreading his brand of mayhem into someone else’s jurisdiction.
Fitzwilliam put his pipe back in the perfectly clean glass ashtray he had not been able to use for six years now. He shook his head. No, he couldn’t just dump his problem on some unsuspecting constable out in the shires, could he?
His ill mood deepening by the minute, he reached for the phone on his desk and punched a single key. “Patel? Could you pop by? Yes, now.”
In less than two minutes there was a gentle tap on the door and a dark-faced man with a brilliant smile stepped inside, standing rigid as a ramrod. “Sah!”
Patel must have used the stairs to get here this quickly. Commendable. Still, his military-like bearing made the inspector slightly nervous. Even though his subordinate had grown up in a family who had spent generations in the colonial regiments, he did wish Patel would not act as though he were on review by the royal viceroy. Fitzwilliam supposed he should be thankful the man didn’t stamp both feet when reporting. There would have been complaints from the floor below.
The only things more annoying was the smell of curry that seemed imbedded in the man’s skin and the fact he was always smiling, even when being dressed down. People who smiled all the time did not understand a policeman’s world. Or, for that matter, any world Fitzwilliam knew.
“You are aware of what happened this morning at the King’s Cross tube station?”
Patel’s eyes were centered on a spot above Fitzwilliam’s head, another annoying military legacy. “Yes, sah!”
Whatever his shortcomings, they did not include a failure to keep apprised of what was going on around the cop shop.
“We can’t let this man, this American, run loose around London until he causes a riot.” Fitzwilliam picked up his pipe, peering into the blackened bowl. “You may need a pen and pad.”
The two items appeared in Patel’s hands as though by magic.
“First, I want to know if anyone spots this man. We have a number of pictures from the station’s security cameras. If he shows up on a camera, I want to know about it.”
The inspector referred to the number of surveillance cameras placed around London. A nervous public had reluctantly agreed to this mass intrusion on its privacy during the years of random bombings by the IRA. Like most government programs initiated for specific expediency, this one lingered long after the emergency passed, now justified as helping to reduce crime.